Lavender & Linen

by Henrietta Taylor

  After our move to France, I noticed gratefully that French women do not give advice so freely about emotional matters. However, these are the same women who spend hours musing over the correct push-up bra and matching g-string yet turn a practised blind eye to their husband’s infidelities. Observing from the periphery, I came to realise that marital relationships were far more complicated than I had imagined. Good marriages that stood the test of time didn’t just happen; daily nurturing was needed — a task that I felt completely incapable of undertaking at this stage. So, for the first time, it was on a happy note that I waved Raymond goodbye from Rome. It was now easier. I loved him and he loved us. Yet more than anything I wanted a full-time committed relationship; the stumbling block was that I had only ever really wanted it with my deceased husband, and that was the one thing I could never have.

  Heading away from Fiumicino, Rome’s international airport, I started on yet another thousand-kilometre drive back to our home in France. The crack of dawn on Sunday is the best time to be on the Italian roads. Almost an hour went by without us seeing another car going in either direction. Had World War III been declared and we were the only ones who didn’t know about it? It was somewhat unnerving. Large trucks are not allowed on the expressways on Sundays and the rest of Italy was either still in bed or getting ready to go to church and then sit down to the big Sunday lunch with the family. Driving up the long straight expressway heading north to France, the children sang at the top of their voices to French pop tunes blaring out from their Walkmans, while self-doubt blared in my mind.

  It seems that every time we do a long-distance drive, problems that have been stewing away on the back burner are resolved one way or another. The two main areas of concern were achingly dull in their constant repetitiveness: France and Raymond. The answer was right before my eyes if only I could put everything into perspective and in order:

  1. Had I made the right decision to stay in France?

  2. Did I know what I was doing with my business?

  3. Would I make money or lose it? Buying the last house was a seriously bad move.

  4. When should I start to put the properties on the market and sell up?

  5. Why couldn’t Raymond and I just break up? Surely I rated myself higher than a convenience factor in someone’s life?

  6. Shouldn’t I put some effort into finding a Frenchman and go totally French?

  I had to stop berating myself for my confusion and just accept the present situation. In the end, destiny would take care of it. As far as the first question went, tickets to Sydney for the children’s half-term holidays in November were already booked. Even though I had to take them out of school a week early for their holiday, it was of prime importance that Mimi and Harry knew about Australia and that they never forgot the land where they were born. They needed to be able to mimic the flat Australian vowels, understand the culture and cope at school; after all, there was no need to become totally French.

  It was a tricky situation with the schools. The teachers could readily understand that my children needed to touch base with their roots and strengthen family ties but they looked at their fairly pathetic grades and continued to ask whether my experiment with the children’s education was in fact working. Maybe they would be better off in an International School in Aix-en-Provence? Marseille? Or even Paris? This translated loosely as finding a school as far away from them as possible because it was proving to be extremely taxing dealing with non-French students. It also offended them that I did not want to put down long and deep roots in France, a country where I was creating a business but which obviously was not good enough to call home.

  It was pointless trying to explain our needs to a teacher who had never been to Paris and rarely to Marseille. Someone who spent their holidays, over twelve weeks per year, pottering around their home and had the rare family visit in Brittany or Normandy but never ventured outside of France. The French have always argued that it is difficult travelling through Europe, continually changing currencies, but with the advent of the Euro, this argument had become dead in the water. The reality is that the French don’t like going outside of France.

  When November finally rolled around, our Sydney holiday got off to a wonderful start. First stop: an exhilarating swim at Manly Beach followed by a cold beer for me and some large lemonades with packets of salt and vinegar crisps for the children. The yellow and red flags were up. The beach patrol was on duty. It was a heady mix, an intoxication of all of the senses: girls in skimpy bikinis; tanned wall-to-wall muscles on young men carrying oversized Malibu boards down to the surf, with board shorts sliding off their narrow hips; the glare of the sun bouncing off the sand; the vivid colours of beach towels, hats and bags. Seagulls screeched and dive-bombed the innocents holding bags of hot chips in their hands. Sulphur-crested cockatoos and multihued rosellas had plumage that hardly seemed natural. The strange sounds, luscious tropical scents and excess of fluorescent colours hypnotised me, pulling me deeper into the familiar yet exotic landscape.

  After such a blast to the senses, the three of us knew that it would be difficult to reintegrate into our lives in France. But we never guessed just how hard it would be until we arrived at Avignon railway station, exhausted and fractious because the wonderful spring weather in Sydney was no longer with us — even the normally translucent blue skies of Provence were now black and threatening. The November rains were about to begin — rains that would bring life to the crops and fill up the desperately depleted water table, giving life back to the numerous springs and creeks that abounded in the hills and across the plain of the Luberon.

  During the hot summer months, we would watch in endless hope for signs of clouds along the horizon that might break the cycle of the oppressive heat. The thunder would roll past and clap into a neighbouring valley, emptying a pitiful amount of rain into the hills. November brought out the true clouds, with serious rainfall to the point of flash flooding. Nature’s rhythm rarely varied. Good solid rainfall would arrive and leave us slewing around in the mud; scars from the wheels of tractors and other heavy machinery would be etched deep into the ground, and once the mud froze, there they would remain until well after Christmas. Ah, Christmas, we all sighed. No family or friends were coming to visit this Christmas. Home alone.

  My friend Lizzie, whose husband Andrew had renovated my houses before I opened my business, was at the TGV station to meet us. We couldn’t have thought of a better welcome as she roared with delight when we clambered from the train. When I was a young girl, ‘bright and bubbly personality’ meant that a young woman was encased in layers of puppy fat. Bright and bubbly was the only way to describe Lizzie — fat she was not. She always had her finger on the pulse. Her knowledge was comprehensive and far-reaching, with information garnered from the local French radio station that blared incessantly in her car. She knew about the best deals for inexpensive holidays, the deadlines for paying taxes; medical and veterinary problems did not faze her. We bundled into her car and allowed her to ferry us home. Already there was more than an autumnal chill in the air. Winter was around the corner. The trip along the RN100 more than confirmed this; the long straight main road from Avignon to Apt was a patchwork of colours, the branches of the cherry trees standing bare in the fields a strong reminder that winter was approaching.

  Our senses could not cope with the differences between the two countries. The heavy salty humid air, the bright colours, the sounds, the traffic, the exotic flora and fauna, the heat rising from the pavement, the smell of grease from the fast-food outlets, the multicultural faces of Australians were only a part of our Sydney life. The city itself had changed so dramatically, with new constructions, expressways, toll ways and tunnels springing up all over. It had been hard to assimilate the infinitesimal layers and changes in a mere seventeen days. As always, the children had accepted this as their other life, quickly adopting the familiar swagger, gestures and language of young Australians. Suddenly we were back in the French countryside, em
pty and still — and the black threatening skies with the portent of cold and rainy days loomed over us.

  Lizzie whispered into my ear that the next day she was coming to pick me up early; she had a surprise. She left us with our two small suitcases standing outside the Wild Thyme Patch. Her children, unlike mine, were finishing their school day (our holiday had been slightly longer than the half-term school break) and she was in a hurry to greet them at the school gate. I was left standing outside the house, rummaging in my pocket in a forlorn search for the house key.

  Claire, my own private house fairy, had been hard at work. Our relationship had blossomed and transformed into one of huge trust and admiration. We both shared a love of excellent food and vast quantities of whisky, which we often consumed at each other’s homes. She was a phenomenally industrious person, working through lunchtimes or well past the standard thirty-five hours per week if a job had to be done. Her upholstery work was immaculate, as was everything she did. This time her magic wand had been swept across our living room, which with the open fire blazing was a comforting and homey sight.

  Even as we moved through the rooms, touching familiar objects and revisiting our photos on the wall, we seemed to be strangers in our own home, which was fragrant with the wonderful but still very foreign smell of the lavender-scented water that Claire used to wash the floors. The telephone broke the silence — even its ring sounded foreign and very French.

  We had been down this path before. It would not take more than twenty-four hours to snap back into French mode, speaking French, eating French, being not quite French. The children needed to wash and eat. Mimi was going off on a two-night school excursion the next day to the northern area of Provence — yet again she would have to sit still, though only for a two-hour journey. My heart ached for her but it was a compulsory school trip. Claire had thought of everything and had aired her sleeping bag and washed her favourite woollens as well as her black jeans with strategic tears on the knees. Small containers stood in the fridge filled with rice salads alongside a large bowl of lettuce with baby tomatoes and a covered plate of thickly sliced ham and hard-boiled eggs; the roast chicken stood under foil, deliciously moist and tender. My job, it appeared, was to make a picnic for Mimi’s lunch in the bus but more importantly to get her to school on time. As we fell heavily into our beds that night at six o’clock, my last thought was that I hoped that the alarm would ring the next day. Something buzzed at the back of my mind that Lizzie had spoken about but it was already too late. I was diving through the crashing waves in Manly, celebrating a catch at first slip with the Australian cricket team and wiping the beer foam from my upper lip. It was good to be home.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Mark of Zorro

  Mimi could barely drag herself out of bed the following morning; sleepy and cross, it was going to be a long day for her and her companions. Miraculously her attitude changed the moment she saw her girlfriends; throwing her sleeping bag and her small backpack into the underneath hold of the coach, she clambered on board. Our family rule for travel has always been that if you can’t carry it yourself, you don’t take it: clean underwear, a toothbrush and a book — the rest was superfluous.

  I stood back and watched the procession of young girls from her class weave between the cars with their oversized luggage; strong, wide straps restrained the bursting suitcases. The corner of a silky red satin shirt peeked out from one ready-to-burst bag. Where and when would this outfit get an outing? I dared not think. It was only eight o’clock in the morning and already the various sets of pre-pubescent girls were seething with high excitement, inching closer to the edge of group hysteria. Large masticated wads from the endless sticks of chewing gum shoved between their glossed lips gave them the vacuous appearance of cows. Their hair, which they had spent the previous evening and the best part of the early morning plaiting into small braids entwined with coloured thread and beads, fell across their sleep-creased faces in the luxurious silk curtains that young girls have only briefly before they start on a course of destruction with the bleach bottle.

  The boys were standing around looking uncomfortable with their bodies and the situation; given half the chance they would stay at home with Maman and the television remote control. They clambered onto the coach steps, deliberately overbalancing as a last show of devilment for their parents’ benefit. Young expectant faces turned towards the beaming parents for a final wave before they collapsed together in a heap of laughter and silent farts onto the floor. The teachers were already raising their eyes towards the heavens, hoping for the courage that would see them through the next seventy-two hours without submitting the main ringleaders to a slow and violent death. I could stand back and wave my daughter off knowing she was in the safe hands of several strong-minded teachers, glad that it was their chosen profession and no longer mine. The one time that I been in charge of a group of giggling schoolgirls on a ski camp had maimed me for life. Fifteen years later, I still could not raise my hand to volunteer as a parent-helper on any school excursion.

  Seats were taken. The head count checked. The first-aid kit checked and loaded into a compartment behind the driver. Monsieur Gallegos, the headmaster, who was always highly visible at every school function, was the last to get on the coach to give some final words to the students about carrying the school name and, of course, their own with pride. All systems were ready to go and with a honk of the coach’s horn, off they set. I wasn’t even sure why — or more importantly exactly where — they were going for the next seventy-two hours. Lizzie was nearby, signalling me over to her. She was busy dabbing her eyes with a tissue while waving to her son. I couldn’t even think about missing Mimi, I could only concentrate on the state of my stomach. It felt like dinnertime. I was either ravenous or exhausted, I couldn’t tell which. Seventy-two hours earlier we had been eating spicy laksa in the steaming heat of Singapore. The signals were confused. Curse bloody jet lag.

  ‘Hen, are you ready? Is something the matter with your foot? Why are you still wearing your slippers?’

  I looked down at my footwear balefully; at least I had managed to change out of my pyjamas.

  ‘Lizzie, pick me up from my house in ten minutes. I’ll go home and put on my shoes.’ The aroma of freshly baked, hot bread was wafting out of the nearby bread shop, dragging me towards it like a magnet. Through my jet-lagged confusion, my brain could just compute ‘hunger then shoes’. The first of the heavy drops of rain started to fall. Later in the day I would be grateful that the first appropriate winter footwear found at the bottom of the cupboard had been my sturdy, waterproof hiking boots. Punctual as always, Lizzie arrived precisely ten minutes later, and while she explained where we were going I started devouring slices of roast chicken on a baguette still warm from the oven, with mayonnaise and lettuce squeezing from the bread onto my chin and dropping onto my coat.

  ‘Fasten your seat beat. We’re off to Valréas.’

  ‘Why?’

  As the Wild Thyme Patch receded into the distance and the rain drops became increasingly heavy on the windscreen, I mulled over what possible reason she could have to go on a two-hour drive and why I had to come along.

  ‘Dogs. Little dogs. Well, puppies really. Truffle dogs — no, I mean truffle puppies. I saw an ad for some black labrador puppies that have been weaned on truffle oil to make them truffle dogs. I want to buy one for Andrew as a Christmas present.’ My mouth gaped open. For the best part of four months the children had been continuously harping on about their need for two labradors: one white, one black. Names had been picked out, discussed and changed on a daily basis. We had come very close to getting one from a litter in June but the gods were smiling on me and the opportunity passed by. But I could feel certain doom approaching with the driving rain that was now falling in hammering sheets. Visibility was nil. The little snippets of the scenery that I could see did not look like our countryside in the Luberon. We were now in serious winegrowing country. No matter which direction I swivelled my h
ead, the rolling hills were deep green. No bunches of purple grapes were left on the vines, which were still swathed in green leaves — whose days were numbered because of the sudden drop in temperature; winter was approaching earlier than predicted.

  We found the supermarket car park on the outskirts of the town — our designated pick-up stop. Lizzie fished in her bag for the telephone number to announce our arrival. Within five minutes, a silver Renault was flashing its headlights at us. We were to follow the driver to his house.

  ‘Stop. This is really mad. I don’t like it. We are following some man to his house; no one knows where we are; we are in the middle of nowhere; I can’t even read the street signs, it’s raining so hard; and worse still my telephone has no signal in this area. What if he is a madman or an axe murderer?’

  Nothing but nothing was going to stop Lizzie getting a truffle dog for her husband for Christmas.

  ‘Come on. Safety in numbers. I am sure that he is a family man and they will be lovely people.’

  Lizzie always believed that good reigned in the world and people would be lovely.

  And of course they were. This family adored labradors and had bred many litters from their champion truffle-finding male. The puppies had been weaned on the highly addictive smell and taste of oil infused with truffles, which had been dabbed liberally and frequently on their tongues. As the puppies grew, they played a game of finding the sock soaked in truffle oil that had been well hidden behind objects in the shed; as they grew wiser and older, the game was made harder and harder. The owner showed us how to play the game with little pieces of truffle that looked more like rabbit droppings than something that one would pay a fortune for in restaurants.